Faces from the Past, Alternate Endings
by JackAddict
Summary: Two of our heroes end up quite differently than in the original fic. Two chapters as a dare to myself. I won't say more here.
1. Chapter 1

**Jack Bauer (Dec 21 1966 - Aug 13th 2006)**

**_A/N:_**_ What if Michelle hadn't killed Marie Warner but only arrested her and Marie later escaped? What if Jack's phone hadn't been located when it had or if the USMC just took too long to find Jack? What if a terrorist had only one aim : to kill Jack Bauer. And what if he succeeded? _

_This is an alternate ending to Jack's story in 'Faces from the Past.' I've decided that Dan Morgan holding Jack hostage was the one opportunity I'll ever have to kill Jack and writing this was actually a personal challenge: could I do it? _

_Turns out I could and I did. __Frankly, once I wrote this, I felt that Jack was truly dead inside my head and I started to feel like I wanted to stop writing 24 fanfics. But, as distance __from these scenes __grew, and FftP progressed and went into its 24th chapter, writing has become easier again and Jack came back to life inside me. __Anyway, if you do read, please, please, please review. Let me know if I've lived up to the challenge... It's been hard writing this and I'm still doubtful whether to post it or not. But alas, it's here, and it's staying here.  
_

_But beware, some scenes are very gruesome. Which explains why I've been afraid to post this (for months, really!); because of what I'm doing to Jack and well, the way it ends. Now, don't shoot me for killing Jack Bauer, just read and take comfort in the fact that he did survive the original version. Okay, I'll stop chatting now._**_  
_**

* * *

**Previously, on FftP:**

**After** the exchange where Jack managed to convince Dan Morgan to let David Palmer and Aaron Pierce go, Jack had been knocked unconscious and shoved into a van. Two vans with Morgan's thugs left the scene, and after a while, the vans separated, so that they're not easy to track. One of them went back towards the city of L.A. and the other one turned onto the 101 West. The westbound van drove to the outskirts of the city and turned into an area dense with trees. Following a narrow, winding road to the hills, it soon arrived at a small cabin in the middle of the woods. The driver parked it in front of the entrance and exited, then opened the door for his boss, Dan Morgan.

* * *

**Morgan** walks directly towards the house, while two of the thugs grab Jack under his arms and pull him out of the van to drag him to the cabin. As they do so, Jack's cell phone falls out of his jacket and lands on the floor of the van, sliding behind a box. By now, Jack has awakened again and is trying to glance around the surroundings of the house in front of him, but all he can see is they seem to be in the middle of the woods. Too soon, Morgan opens the heavy, wooden door to the cabin and Jack is dragged inside. The driver then moves the van again and parks it behind the house, hiding it from view, then sits on the step in front of the door as a lookout and lights a cigarette, gazing, bored, into the darkness. 

The cabin is small and sparsely furnished, only a table and a few chairs are in the single room, with a bed and a nightstand in one corner and a small stove in the other. There are no carpets on the floor or drapes on the windows, no personal items. A tiny kitchen at the other end of the cabin completes the picture.

Morgan enters first, two of his men following with Jack between them, duct tape over his mouth, hands zip-tied behind his back. The ties are already beginning to cut into the flesh of his wrists, almost tight enough to stop the blood flow. He is dragged inside and doesn't resist, but vigilantly glances around the room, counting the windows, and notices there is only one door, the one that they just walked through. The old, wooden floor creaks as Morgan's heavy boots walk across it; behind them, the door is shut by the lookout. Morgan pulls one of the brown, wooden chairs from the table and nods to his men: "Sit him down."

They shove Jack to the chair, then the larger of them pulls the duct tape off Jack's face, then lights an oil lamp on the nightstand, the short one pulls on a string hanging from the ceiling, switching on a single lightbulb, the only built-in illumination in the room, while Morgan walks to the window.

For a moment he just stares out the dirty window, silent. There is not much to see outside, but he is not really looking for anything to see. The pane is covered in dust and dirt from the past storms and there are spiderwebs in each of the corners of the wooden frame that probably used to be white at some point. It looks weathered and old now, just like the rest of the house.

The silence in the cabin is creepy, even somewhat creepy to Jack. He watches Morgan attentively as his back is turned to him. Thankfully, the exchange worked out and the fact that he managed to convince Morgan to let Palmer and Pierce go is the only comforting thought to Jack at this moment. He had given CTU specific orders not to interfere in the exchange, not in the least dreading death if it meant Palmer being able to walk away with his life. Still, even though he agreed to the exchange fully knowing that there was more than a slight chance he might not make it out, it is only now, as he stares at the long, black leather coat of Morgan's, that the possibility effectively strikes him as real. _Not quite the way you've imagined it, is it? _Jack asks himself. _No. But at least I'll die knowing what I did was right. And anyway, it's too soon to give up. Maybe Tony will be able to find us here.  
_

After a while, Morgan, still looking out of the window, his hands behind him, speaks: "Do you know why I brought you here, Jack?" he asks, deliberately using Jack's first name, a very subtle malicious edge in his voice.

Jack's eyes are looking past Morgan and his thugs, somewhere in the distance as Morgan speaks. Seconds later, he mumbles a reply, more to himself than to anyone else: "There's no doubt in my mind."

Morgan's sharp ears nevertheless make out the response and he turns to Jack: "Really? So tell me why?" he asks, moving one step or so closer to him.

Jack grins bitterly for a second, then lifts his eyes towards Morgan, looking him in the eye. "I screwed up your plans." he says slowly, a slight grin touching the corners of his mouth.

Not answering Jack's statement, Morgan comes even closer to Jack. "You killed seven of my men at the Observatory this morning." he states, raising his voice. "One of them was my little brother!" With this outburst Morgan punches Jack full force in the face, the blow splitting Jack's lip. Morgan then starts to walk away from Jack in silence, controlling the anger inside him again.

The room had gone black for a second after the forceful blow to his head but as his senses return to him, Jack spits a mixture of blood and saliva to the floor. "Sorry about your brother." he utters, somewhat neutrally.

At this, Morgan stops again and turns, his eyes piercing and ice cold, sending shivers down the spine of even his own men in the cabin. "Oh you are?" he mocks Jack. "That won't bring Matthew back, now, will it?"

He pauses before continuing. "So, you see, this isn't just revenge for disrupting my plan, it's a lot more personal. If this had only been about the plan I might not even have wanted you here instead of Palmer. My men would have simply shot the three of you at the parking lot." He says the last sentence as if stating a mundane fact. "But now, it is going to take a long time for you to get that reprieve that death grants. Mark my words."

"You don't scare me."

"We'll see."

Silence ensues again that lasts a few moments. Morgan is still pacing the room slowly when he begins to speak. "You know I'm a businessman. Did you know I used to do business with the Iraqis before the first Gulf War? When they were our allies... I also had some dealings with the Iraqi Republican Guards, and you know who they are." Morgan continues talking to Jack as if telling a good-night story. "They had numerous very painful ways of killing the dissidents - or keeping them alive for that matter."

_Yeah, I know_, Jack thinks but doesn't reply. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Morgan, inwardly preparing himself for whatever is coming.

Ron, the taller of Morgan's men comes beside Jack, holding a small blowtorch.

"They used those, for example." Morgan states and nods at Ron, who then turns on the torch, letting the flame burn in front of Jack's face for a while.

The glowing heat coming from the blue flame that close to his eyes is almost blinding and Jack reflexively narrows his eyes, trying to protect them from the light as well as the heat.

Morgan nods to Ron and takes a step back. Pulling back on Jack's shirt, Ron presses the blowtorch on Jack's chest. Morgan calmly watches from the side, enjoying Jack's agony. After a couple of seconds, Jack's body shakes with pain; after trying to resist it, he lets out an loud scream as the smell of burning flesh begins to spread out from his position.

* * *

**The smell** of burnt flesh permeates the cabin even with the door open to the cold, windy, moonless night. Morgan looks at Jack who is slumped in the chair, his shirt now ripped open, several burns on his chest and stomach, sweat dripping from his face. "We won't let you die Jack, not yet." Morgan says smugly. 

Jack, actively forcing himself to breathe through the pain, gathers some strength as he is given a minute's repose. He lifts his head, locking his eyes with Morgan's. "Go to hell." he mumbles.

"Sorry, Jack. Can't do that." Morgan answers coldly and walks to Jack's left side.

"Oh, what's this?" he asks, noticing Jack's bleeding left arm through his shirt. "Ahh, yes. You ran into Ragen and his crew today, too, didn't you? Too bad that you failed to stop them. That must be nagging at you." Morgan taunts, shaking his head.

_You have no idea_, Jack thinks. "We'll get them." he then utters.

"Someone might, but you won't live to see that." Morgan responds and walks to the kitchen.

Jack keeps his eyes on Morgan for a while, but as he disappears to the kitchen, Jack again looks down at the floor, letting his head hang, then closes his eyes, not wanting to imagine what might follow. _You'll know soon enough_, he tells himself.

Morgan opens one of the cupboards, taking a box from it and throws it to the other man in the room, Raul. Walking back, Morgan whispers into Jack's ear: "Did you think your luck would last forever?"

_Luck? I wouldn't call my history that lucky. Except I somehow managed to escape the likes of you all these years_, Jack ponders but lacks the motivation to enter an argument.

Morgan walks to the window again and looks outside while Raul tears Jack's shirt down from his shoulders. Removing the blood-soaked bandage from the stab wound in Jack's left arm, he pours salt from the box into the wound. As Jack groans loudly, then cries out in pain, Morgan smiles at his own reflection in the window. _Revenge is a dish best served cold._

After countless grains of salt have entered and exited the wound, Morgan decides to let Jack recover for a while so that he's lucid enough to understand what is happening and what is said to him. _He gets off too easily if he's unconscious_. Morgan thinks.

* * *

**Seeing** that Jack is more lucid again, Morgan goes and kneels in front of him so that their eyes meet. His pistol is in his hand, resting on his right knee. Jack raises his head slightly and looks at Morgan. "Do you want this to end, Jack? Do you? Just ask and we'll end this here. One bullet is all it takes. End your agony." 

Shivering from the pain and the cold, there's a brief moment where a part of him thinks: _Yes, kill me_, and his eyes seem to convey that. As if he's aware of that, Jack averts his eyes from Morgan again, not replying, not wanting to give Morgan the satisfaction of seeing him humiliated into begging for mercy. _CTU still might come. And if not, I'll die, but I won't beg him to kill me. He'll keep this up for a while, then my body will give up. It's only a matter of time. And time doesn't matter here._ The irony of his own thoughts escapes him - time had been all that mattered for many years.

"You're a goddamned bastard." Jack utters after a while, his voice full of hatred. "Hope you burn in hell soon, along with your brother."

Morgan grins evily. "You first, Jack." He stands and motions to Ron again, who goes outside momentarily, still holding the blowtorch in his right hand. "You first." he repeats and waits for Ron to return.

"I already told you about the Iraqi Republican Guards. You know what other method they used?" Morgan asks as Ron comes back into Jack's view again, part of a garden hose, several inches long, in his left hand.

Morgan positions himself in front of Jack and stands there, enjoying the brief sight of horror in Jack's eyes before he manages to conceal it, then answers his own question: "They would drip melted plastic from hoses like this one on prisoners, only to pull it off after it cooled, tearing skin off with it." taking pleasure in explaning this to Jack.

_You son of a bitch_, Jack thinks, keeping his eyes on Ron, who is already approaching him. Reflexively, despite himself, Jack's body attempts to move, automatically attempting to avoid enduring what's about to happen, but Morgan grabs him by the shoulders and throws him forcefully to the floor. Jack lands on his side, hitting his head on the floor, but not passing out. Morgan rolls him over to his stomach with a foot, then presses his combat boot against the small of Jack's back, pinning him to the floor.

Casting a glance at Ron, Morgan watches with satisfaction as the green plastic melts from the heat of the blowtorch and drips onto Jacks arm. Jack grits his teeth in pain, groaning at the sensation of the hot plastic on his skin, vaguely attempting to save his strength, knowing that what will happen next will without doubt be the worst thing he's ever been through. Ron steps back, waiting.

Several seconds later, when the plastic has solidified on Jack's skin, Raul kneels next to Jack. Morgan watches, emotionless, when Raul suddenly pulls on one of the patches on Jack's arm, the sight accompanied by the sound of the now so familiar pain-filled scream, only immesurably louder than before. A wave of agonizing pain is devouring Jack with a violence, an intensity so far unknown to him and when the first one subsides, a second one follows suit, this one high as a mountain.

* * *

**"That's** enough for now", Morgan says to Ron, who walks away from Jack, turning off the blowtorch, as he puts the remaining small piece of the garden hose away. Raul, too, leaves Jack alone, walking to the kitchen to get a drink. _Bastard is tough_, Raul thinks as he pours himself a glass of water. _Good for us, it'll take longer to kill him._

Jack is still on the floor, now constantly shaking, his nerves continuously sending messages of pain to his brain even though there's no-one working on him at the moment. He has been stripped to his underwear, his clothes thrown carelessly to a corner. His body is bleeding and burned, numerous patches of skin missing from his back, as well as his arms and shoulders, even legs, revealing red tissue underneath the epidermal layer.

Morgan gets very close to Jack, a saddistic grin on his face. "I'm impressed, Jack. You're still with us." he tells him, as if he had expected Jack to be begging for mercy long ago. "This is probably the first time you've shed skin, so I'll give you a while to enjoy the feeling." he says as he walks away, then sits down in one of the chairs by the window, looking out, and lights a cigarette, inhaling the blue smoke with pleasure, taking in the cool air coming through the open window, the freshness outside in gross contrast to the stench of burned plastic and skin inside the cabin. The cigarette burns slowly and he enjoys watching its gleam, contrasting the darkness of the night. He takes another long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the feeling almost as enjoyable as hearing Jack's screams mere seconds ago was.

Apart from Jack's labored breathing, the only other sound in the cabin are Raul's footsteps on the squeaking wodden floor, as he returns from the kitchen and half sits, half stands, leaning at the table, waiting for Morgan's next instruction.

_CTU is too busy, hopefully they have found Marie. Not stopping her and not crossing her plans would be detrimental to this country. Who knows what else she can do..._ Jack's thoughts are almost too quiet for him to hear them, the overwhelming agony dominant in both his body and mind. CTU has not interfered during or after the exchange and they are certainly not here, in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, which means they lost the black vans in the darkness. He had always known he was expendable, and he had told Tony so numerous times, he had told himself that countless times. _Unless a miracle happens, this is it_, he concludes, and despite all the years he spent mourning for Teri and harboring a death wish, he suprisingly finds himself inwardly beginning to slightly hope for the miracle, however remote.

"I've read your file." Morgan speaks again. "You're a junkie, Jack." he tells him, shaking his head, not really looking at him while talking to him. "What was it? Cocaine? Heroin?" Then he turns his head to Jack, continuing. "I can get you some, if you want, it's supposed to dull the pain." he grins and waits, but of course, gets no reply. "No? Oh well, that's too bad."

He throws the cigarette butt out the window before ordering his men to tie Jack's hands above his head. Raul approaches Jack, cuts the restraints, and puts a new piece of cable holder around Jack's wrists after lifting his arms. Jack, almost delirious with pain, does not resist, his sight blurred, mind hardly able to focus on anything beside the giant wave of pain swallowing him as his tortured limbs are forcefully moved.

Then, Morgan tells his men to lift Jack to the table and lay him down on his stomach. While they are doing this, he stands up, removes his relatively narrow but heavy belt from his pants and puts it on the floor, straightening it out. Removing a knife from his pocket, he crouches and sticks it into the leather. He slices down the length of the belt once, then once more, the action resulting in a triple whip. _Time to do a little exercise_, he grins and stands again. Taking off his coat, he throws it to Ron, who neatly folds it and places it on one of the other chairs in the room, one without Jack's blood on it.

Morgan walks to Jack, slowly, as if making a point of every single step he takes, his heels clicking on the floor, and places the belt on Jack's calves, while rolling up his sleeves. "Jack." he begins. "My brother is dead, there's nothing I can do about it. Sherry is dead, that's a fact too. You aren't. Not yet." he pauses and takes the whip in his hand again, walking to Jack's front. "Believe me, if I could make you die several deaths, I would." He frowns slightly. "As it stands, I'll have to make do with killing you just once. But I promise you," he whispers to his ear, holding the belt in front of Jack's eyes, "it will be no fun."

Jack blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but doesn't make an attempt to reply. His mind is weary and his body getting tired, too. _CTU isn't coming. _it dawns on him.

"Close the door." Morgan tells the man guarding it and his instruction is followed. Then he looks once again into Jack's eyes, before bringing the whip down full force on Jack's legs.

* * *

**Jack** is still stretched out on the table in what can rightfully be called The House of Pain. His back is ripped open by the severe flogging inflicted upon him, especially where the whip had landed on already injured, scorched or torn off skin; his legs are red with streaks of blood where the beating left its marks. Arms hanging loosely over the edge of the table, above his head which is turned to the side, blood trickling to the floor from the numerous injuries, including the stab wound that is bleeding again, he is motionless, his strength gone. His breathing is loud and hard, lungs fighting desperately to let in enough oxygen despite the the awkward position he is in, the feeling he can't breathe, almost a fear of suffocation, only adding to the torture. His body jerks involuntarily at times, partly from the cold, but mostly from the unimaginable pain that is now everywhere, refusing to ease off even for a split second. Even though no further injuries are being caused to him at the moment, his body feels no different than a few minutes ago, pulsating, still feeling Morgan's vicious beating. 

Morgan is sitting in a chair by the table now, his merciless eyes watching Jack attentively. On the floor next to him is the homemade whip, now covered in blood. _Matt, you would have loved this_, he thinks to himself.

Suddenly, the door to the cabin opens. Morgan turns his head towards it, and smiles. "Oh, you're just in time." he says.

Jack's brain processes the words, and he opens his eyes slightly to see who else arrived. Disbelieving his eyes, he hopes he's hallucinating as he recognizes the slender silhouette of a woman standing by the door, a vicious, callous grin on her face. Her blonde hair contrasts the navy blue jacket she's wearing over a dark t-shirt, too dark to make out what color it is in the dimness of the cabin, and long black pants.

"Hello, Jack." she tells him coolly as she walks to the table, letting her eyes travel from head to heel on his tortured body, enjoying the sight and most of all, enjoying seeing the pain he is in. "Didn't think I'd see you again." she adds as she drops a large sports bag to the floor.

"I'm sure the pleasure is all his, Marie." Morgan taunts and they both laugh for a moment.

Jack says nothing, too badly injured and agonized to bother answering; but Marie Warner's presence here doesn't exactly fill him with hope. He only briefly realizes that CTU hasn't caught her yet, meaning that the attacks she was overseeing are probably still taking place and a strong feeling of defeat and disappointment overcomes him. _So I'm dying for nothing today._

"Lay him on the floor." Morgan instructs Ron and Raul and they grab Jack by his wrists and ankles, lowering him to the floor a couple of feet away from the table, then step back again.

_No, Jack, it's not for nothing. _his mind contradicts Jack as he is being moved. _You saved President Palmer. They'll catch Marie.  
_

"Turn him over." their boss says again and they do. Jack groans loudly as his tormented back connects with the floor, forced to support his body weight.

Morgan then steps to Jack, pulls the knife from his pocket again and cuts the plastic ties restraining Jack's hands.

"Jack, I'm going to give you one last chance now." he then speaks as he slowly removes all bullets from his weapon but one, chambers a round, and then kneels next to Jack, holding the gun by the barrel, offering it to him. "Take it." he says simply, putting on a friendly face. "There's only one bullet in there, just enough." he further explains to his victim. Jack breathes hard on the floor, each breath torturous in itself. He doesn't move.

"Come on, Jack. End it on your own terms, right now." Morgan offers again. "This is only going to get worse, much worse. I'll let you recover for a while and then I'm going to start over - with everything. I really can't say how much skin you'll have left when we're through." He pauses, letting the words sink in.

Marie speaks up, leaning on the backrest of a chair: "And if you chicken out of it Jack, just say the word. I'll be happy to obey your last order."

Marie and Morgan laugh at her comment, but Jack only moves his eyes, looking at the woman above him, then at Morgan. The rest of the room is dark and somewhat hazy.

"Come on, do it. End your suffering." Morgan says again, wanting nothing more right now than to humiliate Jack into killing himself.

Jack turns his head to the side and looks at the Berretta in Morgan's hand, then raises his eyes to Morgan's face again. Finally, he lowers his right arm, moving it along the floor and grasps the gun. Morgan still holds on to it for another moment or two, then lets go of it. Jack's tortured arm first sinks to the floor from the weight of the weapon, unable to support it.

Seconds later, trembling with the pain the movement brings, he slowly leads his hand up, sliding over his thigh, stomach and chest, lacking the strength to actually lift his arm. He keeps it on his chest for a few seconds, resting it there.

Eventually, he lifts the gun from his chest, fighting against the trembling of his arm, working hard not to let the gun drop back down. Knowing that he'll be dead eventually, whether he kills himself not, Jack decides to at least try and take the terrorist with him. _That one bullet can go both ways_, he thinks, as he points the gun in the air, towards Morgan. Marie, Raul and Ron all point their weapons to Jack's head immediately, but Morgan shakes his head at them, doubting the gun will be fired, seeing that Jack has trouble even steadying the weapon, let alone really taking aim at him. _Come on, give me just a little strength, come on._ Jack tells himself. As he begins to squeeze the trigger slowly, sharp pain in his forearm courses through his limb and he lets out a groan, forced to lower the weapon to the floor again. Resigned, he loosens the grip on the gun, expecting one or all of the weapons to shoot him any moment and only moves his eyes, looking at the woman above him, then at Morgan.

Morgan then steps to Jack and brings his combat boot and his own weight down on Jack's forearm, eliciting one more pain-filled groan from Jack in response, while securing him in place to pick up the weapon from the floor. "You son of a bitch. You really thought you could turn the gun on me, didn't you." he hisses.

_And I would have shot you._ Jack thinks, but his thoughts are suddenly ripped to shreds as he is violently kicked in the head, feeling like his head will come right off. Wrapped up in darkness and a threatening nausea, he closes his eyes, finally asking himself: _What are you doing this for, Jack? Who is going to thank you? _He isn't protecting anybody any more, not hiding any information, holding out any longer just doesn't make sense - what for? _They aren't coming_, he thinks, resolved to end the torture, not willing to go through any more pain for nothing.

Turning to face Morgan and Marie, he feels trickling of blood from his eyebrow, flowing towards his eye. _Palmer is safe, Kim is a grown woman. It's time._ When the black wave that wrapped him clears again, he gradually brings back decisiveness to his eyes, a resolute expression to his face, and keeps his eyes on Marie.

"Kill me." he whispers.

Marie grins at him, then looks at Morgan with the 'I told you so' expression on her face.

"What was that, Jack?" Morgan asks, raising his eyebrows, approaching him, then kneeling down a couple of feet away from him. "Say that again?"

Jack breathes in and out deeply, moving his eyes to Morgan. "Kill me." he repeats, giving up.

With great satisfaction, Morgan laughs. "I will, eventually. But you blew your chance."

He removes the bullet from the Berretta he had given to Jack earlier and takes it between his thumb and index finger, holding it for Jack to see. "This one was meant for you, Jack. And that's where it will end up."

He opens up the bullet with his knife, and looks at Marie, handing her the casing. "Go ahead."

"Thanks." she says, taking it. Ron grabs Jack's arms, pulling them above Jack's head again, and Raul grabs his legs, holding them tightly in place. Marie then kneels next to Jack, pouring the contents of the casing onto one of his stomach wounds. Not enough that the sulphur in the powder already causes visible pain in him, Marie stikes a long, fireplace match that Morgan handed her, letting it burn for a couple of seconds as she looks into Jack's eyes, allowing the flame to steady. She then brings the match to the wound, lighting the gunpowder in it. It ignites with a blast and as Jack yells out, jerking, mechanically trying to throw his legs from side to side, hoping to somehow put out the fire, she spits on him disrespectfully and walks away, throwing the match box to the kitchen.

Though he, too, just like her, would love to stay and keep Jack alive in agony for a while longer, Morgan for some reason starts feeling uncomfortable. Is it because he heard a sound outside? He's not sure. But his instinct makes him begin to realize that their time at the cabin is running out. "Marie, we need to move." he tells her as he stands opposite her.

She nods at him and stops next to Jack, putting out the fire with her boot, causing him to scream once more. She gives Jack a disgusted look, then she pulls her own pistol and points it at Jack. "Jack, this is for Ragen." She pulls the slide back and cocks the hammer, and smiles at him, then starts to squeeze the trigger, delaying the kill for as long as possible. She is truly enjoying the moment, looking him in the eye while making him wonder when the shot will finally ring out and end his suffering.

Jack returns the glare and whispers with what strength he's got left: "See you in Hell."

"Not for a while." she utters and fires three shots into his stomach and chest, and the fourth one to his head.

A moment later smoke granades come flying through the windows and the Marines invade the cabin. It takes only seconds for them to gun down everyone inside in the short firefight that ensues. As the room is clear, Corporal Landis moves inside in search of an agent Jack Bauer. It's not long before he contacts his Platoon Commander, reporting partial mission failure.

* * *

**At** the DOD, SecDef Heller and Audrey Raines have been sitting by the phone, and as it rings, Audrey grabs the receiver, ignoring protocol and the fact she is in her father's office and it's him who should answer the calls. She listens in for a few seconds, saying nothing, and remains standing, as if paralyzed, with the phone to her ear, even after the caller hangs up and the call light on the phone is no longer blinking. 

As a tear begins to slide down her cheek and another joins the first one, her father stands up from the chair, wordlessly, and as he takes a step towards her, she drops the phone from her hand, its weight suddenly feeling like a hundred pounds. Her knees begin to quiver, and had Heller not embraced her tightly and held her upright, she would have slumped to the floor.

Nothing can stop her tears now from flowing freely, in the darkness and privacy of his office. It is now, at the latest, seeing her grief, that Heller begins to realize that she and Jack were more than just friends, despite Paul still being her husband. But even if Audrey were able to think that far in this moment, which she wasn't, she couldn't have cared less. She loved Jack. Let her father find out, write it on the world's tallest building, let the whole world find out, they should know: she loves him. It was wrong of them to hide it, wrong not to give themselves permission to enjoy their relationship in the open, wrong to never have been a couple officially, thinking that there would be enough time for that later, when she decided the moment was right to break the news to her father.

They made lots of mistakes, but there was one thing she was sure of: it was not wrong of them to fall in love.

While her tears wet her father's suit, her breathing becomes louder, turning to sobbing within moments, the room around her seems to disappear, only giving way to pain and sorrow inside her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tony Almeida (Oct 12 1962 - Aug 14th 2006)**

**A/N: **Now, if Jack is dead, there is no-one who can break Robert Louden (that scoundrel Jack kidnapped from the Federal Detention Center in Downtown L.A.) and prove Tony's innocence. With Louden's statement still standing, Chloe's evidence just isn't enough to get him out of Hammond's hands.

This alternate chapter to Faces from the Past obviously ends in one of our favorite characters dying, but I dare say it was handled better than... you know what. The feel to the scene is totally different to Jack's last moments, and it is suitable for anyone to read, but you might want your kleenex next to you, at least I hope so, or else, I haven't done a good job ;-). Again, if you read, please review. Like with Jack's death, I hesitated whether or not to post this, since, once again, it was a personal challenge, but I eventually decided (with Slug's Bay's help) that it should be shared with the rest of you. Enough introduction. Here goes.

* * *

**During** the interrogation at Division, Tony is painfully aware of every minute that passes. He feels like someone is stomping on his injuries with a pair of combat boots but does his best not to show it. _Don't let them see you bleed. Don't give Hammond the satisfaction of thinking he has won_, he thinks to himself, trying to keep his mind in control of his body, though it is becoming increasingly difficult. 

Hammond is standing opposite to Tony and looks at him, becoming more annoyed and angry. He leans in closer to Tony and says. "You're really starting to try my patience. It would be in your best interest to tell me what you know. The more time we waste here not catching your accomplices, the worse your position gets. But then again, you've already been tried for treason, so this would not be anything new for you, except maybe the outcome."

Tony looks him straight in the eye. "I've already told you so many times Brad. So the only thing I could tell you now is something that you want to hear but what isn't true." He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms at his chest, feeling his strength ebb away.

"If this is what you want, so be it. I'm going to give you some more time to think this over in holding cell and after that we'll see. If you still choose to play this game, I have no choice but to get Knoll in here." Hammond presses on, almost sounding like he might be sorry for the turn of events. "And you know what he does. Are you sure you want to subject yourself to that?"

A feeling of dread flashes through Tony's mind as Hammond's words sink in. He knows very well what Knoll does, him being Richards' counterpart at Division. _Knoll? Things just went from bad to worse, Tony. Even if you can handle the things to come in your mind, your body can't._

Hammond lets the guards into the room. "Take him to a cell." he orders.

As they cuff Tony and grab him by the arms, one of the them inadvertently strikes his elbow into Tony's side, hitting his broken ribs, causing him to reflexively bend his upper body a little, the movement viciously reminding him of his gunshot wound. Barely able to suppress a yell, fighting to keep his balance, Tony lets them half lead, half drag him to the cell.

When the door slams to behind him, finally alone without guards or security cameras, Tony lays down on the floor. Moaning in pain, he tries to find a position that would ease the pain but notices that staying still is the best option. He closes his eyes, not wanting to think about what will happen in a while and sinks into a pain filled haze.

* * *

**Lying** on the concrete floor of the dark, tiny cell, Tony can feel the sweat running down his face, his cheeks burning, shivers wracking his weakened body. "Cold. It's cold." he mutters. He turns his face against the cool tiles, hoping for relief, this effort costing him a fair amount of strength but not bringing the desired effect, as the concrete underneath him warms up within seconds, only feeling rough on his skin. He pulls his knees slightly toward his chest, but stops and moans in pain as his thighs touch his stomach. The searing pain causes everything to go black before his eyes for a moment. Unstoppably, the darkness claims his weary mind again, as his body goes into convulsions, trying to fight the fever. The shivers pull painfully at his sides, causing him to gasp for air, even in his fleeting state of consciousness, his body working automatically to keep the oxygen flowing into his lungs. 

One of the guards outside Tony's cell hears gasping and moaning from the other side of the door. He opens up the slot on the door, looking in, only to see Tony shaking on the floor. "Almeida!" he calls. "Stop it!"

As Tony doesn't react, he closes the slot again and pulls his keycard through the card slot, unlocking the door. "Mitch!" he calls to the other guard, who joins him instantly. "What's going on?" his collegue asks.

"Dunno. He's shaking. Might be faking it." the first guard, Dave, answers.

Together, they enter the cell. Mitch approaches Tony, pulling his nightstick and pokes Tony in the stomach with it. "Stop the act, Almeida. You ain't getting outta here."

Tony cries out in pain as the nightstick touches his injured stomach, reflexively trying to pull away from it, his body still remembering the earlier beatings in prison, many of them starting with a similar scene.

Dave crouches down by Tony's head and places a palm on his forehead. Alarmed, he utters. "He's burning up."

Understanding that the situation is more serious than they thought, Mitch walks out of the cell, picking up a service phone in the hall, dialing Hammond's office.

"Hammond." a cold voice answers.

"Mr. Hammond. Mitch Bernstein. Almeida is not doing good. Looks like he's got a fever or something. He's convulsing."

Hammond stands immediately. "Call the clinic. I'll be right down."

Mitch hangs up and dials another number.

"Clinic, Burke." a voice answers on the other end

"Dr. Burke, this is Bernstein, Security. We need you down in Almeida's cell immediately. He's going into convulsions."

_Goddamn it! I told Hammond they had pushed Almeida too far._ he thinks. "Alright, I'll be there shortly." he says to the guard.

"Thank you." Mitch says and hangs up the phone, walking back inside the cell.

"Let's put him on the bed." he tells Dave and they grab Tony's arms and legs to lift him up. _Where are they taking me? _Tony's mind screams, but he is simply too weak to react. The bed consists solely of a metal frame with an equally solid steel panel as support for the thin mattress and does nothing for Tony's comfort as they lay him down on it.

Soon, footsteps are heard in the hallway and Hammond's silhouette stands in the doorframe for a second before walking in. "Where's the doctor?" he asks.

"He's on his way." Dave answers.

* * *

**Hammond** stands there, looking at Tony for a few moments. _You son of a bitch, you're not just going to die on me without telling me what I need to know,_ he thinks. "Where's that doctor?" he utters to himself and walks back into the corridor. There he sees Dr. Burke and a medic running towards the cell. 

Moments later, the two men enter the cell. "Give me some room", Burke barks at the guards as he kneels by Tony, taking in his current state. "And get the light on!" Then he speaks to Tony in a friendly tone of voice. "Tony, it's Dr. Burke. Can you hear me?" he asks as he leans in to listen to Tony's heart. Tony does not respond, only whimpers quietly in pain as the bright lights hit his eyes.

"Tony, I'm going to check your injuries now. Can you tell me where it hurts?" Burke asks, out of habit, but in his mind realizes the answer is simply 'everywhere'. Again, Tony does not react to Burke's request. Instead, he calls out for Michelle weakly, hoping she's there.

"I'm sorry Tony, she's not here now. I promise I'll get her to see you as soon as it's possible." Burke replies sympathetically. _He's not sick, this fever is a sign of something else. He's already allergic to penicillin, maybe it's another reaction to something._ As he feels Tony's hard and swollen stomach, Tony again cries out, a sure sign to Burke that the old wounds have reopened or worse. "It's ok. Hold on, I'll give you something for the pain."

The medic takes Tony's pulse and blood pressure, and when the measurement is done, he just shakes his head at Burke: "Way too high." is his only comment.

As Burke injects the medicine into the IV the medic has installed, he turns to Hammond. "What did you give him?"

"The standard drug Knoll likes to use." Hammond replies. "I don't know what's in it. It attacks the nervous system and increases the neurotransmitter levels, the heart rate and the blood pressure. It is quite strong but I can't tell you more. You'd have to ask Knoll about it, but he's gone home now."

Burke sighs, in his mind cursing Hammond to the lowest pits of Hell. He would ask for the composition of the drug if it hadn't been in Tony's system for so long already. But by the time they might get a hold of Knoll, it would be too late.

* * *

**After** making sure Tony is as comfortable as possible, Burke gets up and walks to Hammond, the urgency now lost from his movements and his voice. "You'd better get Michelle Dessler in here." he says quietly to Hammond. 

"Why?" Hammond asks, reluctant to let Michelle see what he's gotten Tony into. "Just get him to the clinic."

Burke lowers his voice, angry. "He's dying." he hisses. "There is nothing I can do for him now. You pushed him too far with those injuries, they've reopened and are causing internal bleeding, his lungs have started filling with blood, I suspect his broken ribs pierced his lungs when we were reviving him. In addition to that, the compound you used probably provoked a reaction which, in turn, is causing more injuries. The least you can do is let the man go with his wife at his side. He was asking for her. If you don't, I promise I'll get that inquiry started as I mentioned." he finishes, holding a crooked finger almost in Hammond's face.

Hammond eyes Burke for a while. He doesn't at all appreciate being threatened and he opens his mouth to tell Burke that, but just then, Tony lets out a groan as another wave of pain hits him, the painkillers not taking away his agony just yet. Hammond for a moment turns his eyes, but not his head towards Tony, then changes his mind and says. "Bernstein, get Michelle in here. She's in her office."

The guard nods and runs out into the hallway to fetch Michelle.

* * *

**Michelle** is typing at her computer when the door to her office bursts open and Mitch walks through without knocking. He doesn't even give her time to ask any questions, telling her: "It's Tony. Come with me." 

Urgently, she gets up from the chair and follows the guard swiftly down the hallways and to the few cells Division has in the building. One of the doors is open, and light protrudes from inside the tiny space behind it. As Michelle approaches the cell, her footsteps are heard inside, and they become even quicker, the closer she gets, until she runs. _Tony!_ her mind yells, anticipating the worst.

She grabs the doorframe with both her hands as she arrives, and her eyes fall on Hammond, then the other figures in the cell, hastily searching for Tony until she spots him on the bed, shivering, sweating, in agony.

Burke sees Michelle at the door and walks to her, motioning the others out of the room as well. She wants to run right past him to Tony but he stops her gently, saying "Come with me." He escorts her outside the door and looks her in the eye. Unwillingly, she follows him, not taking her eyes off Tony until she can't see him any more because of the wall separating them.

"Michelle, I'm afraid I have bad news for you." Burke says, not beating about the bush. He had always hated this part of the job, it was the worst thing, explaining to husbands, wives, sons, daughters or even only friends, that they were about to lose someone they deeply cared about, but she had a right to know what had happened so that she could prepare herself for it, if it was humanely possible. Knowing there is no time for euphemisms, he continues. "Tony's injuries were too severe to take the strain of the interrogation. His lung must have been punctured by a broken rib and some wounds must have reopened and are bleeding internally. Besides, he is having an adverse reaction to one of the drugs they gave him, which resulted in further damage."

With his every word, Michelle felt the floor under her feet tilt a little more and slide a little further away, and now, as his voice falls silent, it appears to her like she is about to lose her balance. She closes her eyes for a moment, hoping to find her equilibrium again, but then she looks at him, shocked, feeling her throat tightening up. "Wha- What are you saying?" she asks, her mind actively refusing to grasp the meaning of Burke's words.

Burke sighs, grasping her hands sympathetically. "I'm sorry, there's nothing more I can do for him... He's dying."

The last word stabs Michelle's heart like a red-hot knife. _Did he just say that? _She stares at Burke, as if paralyzed, her mind still processing the actual meaning of the word, fighting to ban it from her ears.Though her urge for denial is great, it is a vain attempt, as the realization of his words begins to kick in.

"Tony asked for you." Burke continues, speaking softly. "I just gave him another shot for the pain so he'd be as comfortable as possible. I'm sorry, Michelle. That's all I can do."

"No, this isn't happening." Michelle utters, shaking her head. _With everything that he's been through, don't tell me that he's going to die through one of our own. _"No. Tell me it's not true. It can't be true." she says, almost wanting to yell the words at Burke. She finds his eyes, waiting for him to tell her it was a bad joke, but all she sees is genuine compassion.

He lowers his eyes, then looks at her again, whispering: "I'm sorry."

Michelle frees her hands from his grasp and presses her fingers to her eyes to prevent herself from falling apart instantly, although she can feel her heart break in her chest. _Try to stay strong now_, she says to herself, but she can feel her fingertips getting wet. Somewhat ashamed, she turns away from Burke. _Not now, Michelle. You have to keep it together for Tony. Get a grip on yourself_, she orders herself, forcing herself to stop crying.

As she turns back, Burke is holding a kleenex in his hand, handing it to her, and she takes it, grateful. Dabbing it at her eyes, she sniffles, doing her best to compose herself. "How long does he have?" she asks him quietly, looking at the floor, not able to meet his eyes with hers.

"Minutes, not hours." he tells her. "You should go to him."

Wordlessly, Michelle nods and, taking another deep breath, walks into the cell.

Michelle approaches the bed, covering her mouth with one hand as she walks the few steps to the side of the cell. So often had she been afraid for Tony, so many times was she afraid she had lost him. In her mind, she had seen them forever parting ways in a sterile, white hospital room, but never did she imagine they would be saying their goodbyes in a cold, dirty, tiny cell in the basement below her own office.

She kneels by his bedside, touching his arm. "Tony?" she whispers softly, so as not to scare him, her voice only not breaking due to the brevity of his name.

"Michelle..." he speaks her name half whisper, half whimper, hoping it is really her calling out to him and not just him imagining things.

"I'm here, honey." she whispers, as she gently takes his hand into hers and attempts to smile, despite not even being sure if he will be able to see her or recognize her. Her other hand moves to his head, touching his hot, sweaty forehead, then traveling to his hair, wet as if he'd just come out of the shower. She caresses him, hoping her touches have some miracle power to soothe the pain he is in.

He turns his head towards her and opens his eyes slightly, recognizing her. She's here with him, his sunshine, and suddenly, the cell doesn't feel as cold any more. "I..." he swallows bile before continuing. "I told them everything I know." he whispers, his eyes pleading for her to believe him.

A tear slides down her cheek at his words, and she wipes it away bashfully. Her crying had always hurt him and more pain is the last thing he needs. "I know." she whispers, forcing a smile onto her lips, to reassure him, then continues to move her fingers through his hair slowly. "I know, sweetheart." No one had believed him, they had only tortured him for information he didn't have. She bows down to him and softly kisses his salty brow, managing to hold back a sob before he could notice. Pulling herself back up slightly, her face remaining close to his, she whispers: "No-one will hurt you any more."

At her words, Tony relaxes slightly. Knowing that Michelle still believed in him after all that happened was the only comfort he needed; she was his touchstone, as she always had been.

With the painkillers taking effect, the tension created by the fear is leaving with the pain, progressively giving way to the tiredness invading his body. "I love you." he whispers, his words barely audible. He closes his eyes again and leans into her tender touch, seeking comfort in it.

"I love you too, Tony. More than anything." she tells him as her right hand slides down to his neck, her left tracing the outline of his lips, as if to commit every detail to memory. She lowers her head, almost touching his ear with her lips, unsure if he can still make out her words, saying: "Thank you."

Those two words said everything. Thank you - for falling in love with me, thank you for making me the happiest woman on this dismal planet we call Earth when you married me. Thank you - for saving my life - from sadness, mistrust, misery; thank you for saving me from living the pathetic life I knew before I met you. Thank you for changing me. Thank you for always bringing me back home when I wanted to run away, for making any place feel like home if you were there. Thank you from saving me from the hands of a ruthless terrorist; for giving up your life, your freedom, your reputation for me.

"Thank you for loving me." she whispers to his ear.

Tony is feeling tired, he has no strength left in him to even move his head, but his tormented brain manages to process Michelle's words; it does not allow him to smile at her, however, despite him desperately wanting to somehow show her that he is thankful for her love, too, leaving him to only hope that she can feel it. Her gentle touches are what he concentrates on, wanting to feel them, enjoy them, prolong the moment as long as possible, not willing to let go.

But little by little he feels his sense of touch fleeting, the bright neon light in the cell getting dull and the darkness in his mind getting stronger, despite his desperate attempt to fight it, it's pulling him further and further away from Michelle.

Noticing that life is departing from him by the second, Michelle brings both her hands to his face, caressing his cheeks with her thumbs, her palms cupping his face. _Don't leave me. Please don't leave me. I don't know how to live without you_, she wants to tell him, but doesn't, not wanting to let him go with an undeserved guilty conscience.

Instead, she bows down to him again, closing her eyes as her soft lips connect with his - the lips she loves - now trembling, dried out and split but not any less dear to her. She kisses them tenderly, hoping to give Tony one last sensation of their love to take with him wherever he is heading to.

Tony, feeling Michelle so close to him, relaxes completely now, calmly giving in to the darkness, allowing it to pull him to sweet oblivion.

And suddenly, the pain is gone.

As Michelle is about to separate her lips and his, he exhales, giving her everything he had left, his breath warming the inside of her mouth for the last time.

* * *

**As** the shivering underneath her stoppe, Michelle slowly pulled away from Tony, realizing with great sorrow and anguish that he was gone. What she was afraid of at this point, she didn't know. Maybe it was fear of waking up alone in the morning to a cold bed next to her where he would normally lie, usually reluctant to get up, always needing a little motivation from her that early in the morning; knowing he would never lie next to her again. Maybe she was afraid of always coming home at night to an empty flat, losing even the last bit of hope that she had cherished until now to find him there waiting for her; to the flat that they had furnished and decorated together, where everything reminded her of him: the lounger where he would sit watching TV, the carpet where they made love more than once, the Beatles' song he had played to her when he had proposed to her, the dried roses from the same evening that she had kept so dearly, his coffee-stained Cubs mug that he had left at his desk on his last day at CTU - she had kept it when they lead him away and never tried to remove the stains, because they made her feel like he was there with her in her lonely hours, whether he was in prison or on one of his alcohol-accompanied strollings to 'clear his mind' after his release. 

Things haven't been easy for them since his pardon, but it had started to slightly get better and despite his staying away from home for days or sometimes weeks in a row, she would wake up every morning or come home every night with at least a realistic hope he would be there with her when she opened her eyes or unlocked the door. Maybe it was the finality of knowing that these things would now never happen, that her hopes to find him there would now forever be in vain, that was now appearing to tear her heart out of her chest. Maybe it was the fear of not knowing where what was left of her sorry life would take her, even if she did somehow manage to learn to live without him; him, who - despite everything that's happened between them - was still the love of her life.

But now, as she looked at Tony, his face seemed peaceful. The fear and pain that had been there as she walked into the cell were gone and she found herself thankful that he'd been freed from it all. Rational thinking left her increasingly, while her vision became ever more blurred. Tears now came rushing out, flowing freely down her cheeks and pooling onto Tony's chest. Little by little, she began to sob uncontrollably, leading her hands over his face, his shoulders, his chest and back again, her desperate crying audible in the hallway. As the world around her seemingly and progressively got dark, she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly, pressing him closely, as closely as possible against herself, wanting to keep him in her embrace forever. Never wanting to let go.


End file.
